


Let's Start Over

by howler32557038



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Conditioning, Eating Spicy Food Way Too Late At Night, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hospitalization, Hurt/Comfort, Injury Recovery, Kissing, Late Night Conversations, Launch Codes, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Kissing, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Restraints, Romance, T'chucky - Freeform, Trigger words, Wakanda, WinterPanther - Freeform, wpweekend
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 08:46:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7501773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/pseuds/howler32557038
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It would be so easy to keep living this way. To fear everyone and to be feared by everyone. Be passive. Let T'Challa's doctors and scientists fix him, if he's fixable. </p><p>But science made him what he is. It's a weapon that's been used against him for years, and a weapon cannot be used as a tool to create peace. He's learned that much.</p><p>So when T'Challa reaches out to help him up, Bucky takes his hand. It doesn't feel like he's just allowing himself to be helped - it feels like he's finally helping <i>himself</i>. And that's how it starts.</p><p>
  <i>Art by cobaltmoony.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let's Start Over

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fangedangel (clockworkqueen)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkqueen/gifts), [cobaltmoony](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobaltmoony/gifts).



> Phew - 16 hours at work, and I still couldn't sleep until this was edited and posted. I blame the fact that cobaltmoony and clockworkqueen are too inspirational.
> 
> Anyway, here's my small contribution to #WPWeekend! More to come!

 

T’Challa’s medical team had dedicated a grueling four hours to stabilizing Bucky and minimizing the risk posed to his health by his ruined arm. Bucky couldn’t remember the Weapon having ever sustained such extensive damage - granted that didn’t necessarily mean that it _hadn’t._ Memories from the field had come back easily. In the field, he was allowed to be lucid and present. His time spent on lab-tables and strapped to exam-chairs was much hazier, and drugs and trauma stood between him and the memories like a heavy curtain. Sometimes, he’d hear the sounds of equipment, voices discussing his living body like a cadaver, and maybe he’d glimpse the face of a scientist once in a while, but that was all that his mind was willing to offer. Maybe it was for the best that he didn’t try to remember those days.

Given the sheer magnitude of the damage, though, he’s surprised by how quickly the doctors in Wakanda are able to diagnose and treat the malfunctions. When Steve and T’Challa had helped him limp his way off the jet and into the facility, it has been a burnt mass of scorched metal and melting wires, many of which were directly connected to his brain or spinal cord and would trigger a blinding flare of light behind his eyes each time they grounded. The warped prosthetic was supported by skeletal grafts at a dozen junctures, as well, which made it hurt to move at all.

The battery of tests and procedures they’d run had been excruciating. T’Challa knew this would be the case - in fact, he’d contacted his team en route to the facility and had immediately tasked an anesthesiologist and a biochemist with formulating painkillers that Bucky wouldn’t be able to metabolize so quickly. But that would require at least a few days of work, and the blood steadily leaking from Bucky’s ears and nose and the hot sparks of damaged circuitry and grinding servomotors meant that there was no time to wait for new drugs to be developed. Bucky would just have to bear being awake and alert through the initial emergency treatments. He had tried to assure T’Challa that he was nothing but grateful for the help - that he could handle it. He had been awake during far gorier procedures. T’Challa had shaken his head regretfully and remarked that he sincerely hoped this would be the last time for that. The doctors and technicians had been equally kind and gentle and apologetic, but Bucky had tried to smile at all of them. Even when he couldn’t smile, he thanked them. It certainly wasn’t the worst experience he’d ever endured on a surgical bed, and T’Challa and Steve had stayed with him the whole time. It wasn’t so bad.

Once the medical team had done all that they could, Steve and T’Challa had disappeared into a room nearby. Bucky had watched their somber conversation through the glass door. An hour later, Steve had finally returned to tell Bucky that he had to leave him for a while. That he had unfinished business to attend to. Bucky knows that it has something to do with his friends - the people he had left behind at the airport in Leipzig - and he’s glad that Steve doesn’t try to stay with him. God knows, Steve has sacrificed enough on his behalf. He wants to see him taking care of the people who deserve it, who have _earned_ his trust. Especially Wilson. Somehow, after the tenth cold, cutting remark, Bucky had started to feel very fond of Sam. He wanted him to trust him, maybe even _like him_ , but he knew Wilson was going to make him work hard for it. And Bucky wants to show him that he’s _willing_ to work for it. He feels safe with Sam. But Wilson is right to not trust him yet.

The combination of surgical anaesthesia, the relentless pain in his shoulder, spine, and head, and the chaos of the past week had finally sapped the remainder of Bucky’s energy. Minutes after Steve had left the facility, he had dozed off. It had already been dark outside, then - maybe a little after eight in the evening.

When he wakes up, it’s still dark, but he’s groggy and his mouth is dry, so he knows it must be early morning. He tilts his head up to check the monitor beside him that displays his blood-pressure and heart-rate and is surprised to find that it’s only eleven thirty. He squints at the screen, trying to focus his bleary eyes, wondering how a three hour nap had managed to make him feel so disoriented, and then he notices the date. A full day has passed. His three hour nap had actually lasted twenty-seven hours. As shocked as he is, he supposes that his body had needed the rest, and he’s certainly in less pain now than he was when he’d fallen asleep.

There’s no sense in bothering anyone this late at night, and he doesn’t see any of the medical staff around. He might as well get a little more sleep while he can. He tries to roll onto his right side to ease the ache in his back that has developed after so many hours in bed - and he feels something _agonizingly_ familiar.

Pressure against his shoulders and chest. The chafe of nylon against his thighs and calves. His breath catches in his throat and he thrashes once in mindless panic in the dark room before he can force himself to stop and think. He knows where he is. Steve trusts T’Challa. T’Challa trusts his staff. He’s fine. But his brain can’t seem to convince his racing pulse that he’s not back on a lab table in Siberia or Konstanz. Why was he strapped down? No, he knows exactly why. He’s dangerous. _Don’t fight it. Let them do what they have to do to feel safe._

Somewhere to his right, a chair shift against the floor tiles in the dark room, and then two palms press flat against his chest, pushing him back down onto the bed. The span of fingers is too broad to be Steve. The monitor goes wild for a moment as his heart hammers with fear and over the pounding in his ears he can faintly hear himself mumbling pleas of _no, no, no,_ until a low, warm voice washes over all the other noise like like a gentle wave, whispering, “Hush, _hush -_ you are safe. You’re in Wakanda, Barnes, you’re safe. No one is going to hurt you. Hush.”

It’s T’Challa’s voice, and the words are an order, but one meant to comfort and reassure. Bucky takes a deep drag of air, and makes himself listen and obey. The hands leave his chest and quick footsteps cross the floor, and then the room floods with soft light. The pale gold walls and the white machinery are illuminated and the lights catch the green shimmer of the jungle foliage outside, pressing in against the long, moisture hazed windows, engulfing and protecting the facility. He’s safe.

T’Challa returns immediately to the side of the bed. He doesn’t loom over Bucky like so many others have - instead, he lowers the bed-rail and sits down beside him, long, dexterous fingers moving swiftly to loosen each of the straps holding Bucky in place.

“I know, I know,” T’Challa soothes as Bucky’s eyes focus and his breaths start to come slower, like he’s talking to a spooked animal. “I’m very sorry that we restrained you, my friend. You have...well, we call them _inarhumani_. Very bad dreams. Night-terrors, perhaps, is the word,” he explains with an understanding smile. “I was afraid you would hurt yourself, but I did not want to wake you.”

Now that the restraints are gone, Bucky finally feels a sense of calm overtake him. The heart monitor’s tones return to a steady rhythm. “I’m sorry,” he says with a sigh that lets out some of the heaviness in his chest. “Forgot...just forgot where I was for a second.” He swallows, trying to wet his parched throat and smooth out the roughness of his voice.

T’Challa’s eyes narrow perceptively as he reaches for a cup of water that had been waiting on the bedside table. He places one hand on Bucky’s shoulder, supporting him as he sits up, and gives him the cup. “Captain Rogers and I spoke briefly about your history.”

Bucky feels his jaw tighten reflexively. “What did he tell you?”

“Enough. The news since 2014 only said that you were a member of Hydra and a terrorist. Sympathetic sources called you a prisoner of war, but a dangerous one. Now that I begin to learn the truth of the matter, I see that the news has not been telling the whole story. I thought it might be frightening to you, waking up in yet another strange place. That is why I stayed.”

Bucky can feel the weight of the cup in his hand, but he’s too overcome to lift it. He stares at T’Challa, not afraid for once to make eye-contact. Steve trusted him blindly. But this was new - here was a relative stranger, one who had been his enemy, who didn’t look at him like a criminal that needed to be contained or killed, who wasn’t afraid of him and had never been afraid, even when they’d fought. He’s treating him like a human being, talking to him like a friend, even though he knows what he’s done. No one besides Steve has done that in a long, long time. Bucky likes the way it makes him feel. He drains the cup, and the cold water clears his head. “Thank you,” he says with a voice that’s no longer rough and weak, staring humbly at the empty glass.

“Do you think you could sleep until morning?” T’Challa asks. “Or would you rather take a walk with me?”

Bucky is eager to stretch his legs, and even more eager to talk with T’Challa and prove to someone that he’s still capable of a conversation, of returning friendship when it’s offered. “I’m wide awake.”

“Let’s walk, then,” T’Challa smiles, offering his hand.

“Yeah,” Bucky laughs, taking it.

 

The medical facility is much quieter than Bucky remembers it being when he’d limped in, leaning on Steve’s and T’Challa for support. Now, in the middle of the night, it’s relatively deserted and the wide hallways seem to echo every breath he takes. T’Challa had given him some fresh clothes before they’d set out - soft linen pants and a plain shirt, along with a pair of house-slippers that are more comfortable than anything Bucky has worn in his whole life. He still doesn’t feel nearly dressed enough to be in polite company, but he supposes that medical professionals won’t think much of seeing a patient so dressed down.

For a while, they occupy themselves just wandering the halls, T’Challa leading the way to some unknown destination, his eyes fixed pensively on the floor a few feet in front of him. There’s only a skeleton staff on duty at this hour, but those who happen to see them on their way somewhere always hurry to the side to stand against the wall, head lowered respectfully until T’Challa has passed by. T’Challa always nods to them and greets them, most of them by name. Bucky takes a step back each time it happens, feeling embarrassed and unworthy of being seen with him - all these good people who’ve probably never committed a crime in their lives, with a thousand times his education, _bowing_ to this guy, and here he is taking a stroll with him at midnight, like _he’s_ someone important, too. He hopes that knowing he doesn’t deserve T’Challa’s friendship is enough to absolve the sin, at least in part.

“Do want something to eat? Maybe something hot to drink?” T’Challa asks, laying a friendly hand on Bucky’s back. For a moment, Bucky can’t even connect with feelings like hunger and thirst - he’s distracted by how wonderful it feels to be touched in such a familiar, gentle way, without hesitance or fear. T’Challa mistakes his hesitance for confusion. “There is a cafe on the second floor of the hospital. It stays open all night,” he clarifies, smiling.

“Sure, yes - thank you,” Bucky stutters.

T’Challa leads him to an elevator. It’s all glass and located on an exterior wall, so he can see the jungle plantlife pressing in against the building. There are no buttons, but T’Challa, looks toward the ceiling and says, _“Zimbini,”_ and the doors close and they ascend. Bucky quirks his head and smiles, and T’Challa smiles right back. “Two,” he explains.

“Yeah, Xhosa, right? I...spent some time in Bhisho, back in ‘89.”

T’Challa’s eyebrow rises almost imperceptibly. “Uthetha ngayo?” _You speak it?_

Thirty six languages that he barely remembers learning, and now he finally gets to use them to make some friends. “Kancinane,” he replies humbly. _A little bit._

“Ngoba?” _Why?_

“Hydra,” he answers frankly.

“Uyandiqonda ngoku?” _You can understand me?_ T’Challa chuckles with a little disbelief in his eyes.

“Ewe...ndicinga najlo.” _Yeah...I think so._ “Uthetha ngokukhawuleza.” _You talk really fast._

The elevator doors open on the second floor and warmer light floods in. Bucky feels like a spell has been broken.

T’Challa leads him past a reception area and around the corner to a well-lit open seating area. This looks more like an upscale cafe than a hospital cafeteria to Bucky, but he can’t say he’s ever seen a medical center like this one. They settle side by side on a low couch with plush cushions, and Bucky is suddenly so comfortable that he can hardly keep his head up. He could easily fall asleep again right here. T’Challa must see his eyes beginning to droop. He places his hand on Bucky’s uninjured shoulder and gives it a light squeeze. “You still have a lot of medication in your system, don’t you?” he chuckles. “Maybe if we get some food in your belly, you’ll be able to sleep the rest of the night.”

“You don’t have to feed me, really,” Bucky deflects, ducking his head with embarrassment.

“Hydra’s modifications to your body were more extensive than I thought, then,” T’Challa replies with mock sincerity.

“No, I just meant,” Bucky grins in spite of himself, “I mean, you’ve done more than enough, just bringing me here, fixing me up like this--”

T’Challa shakes his head adamantly. “Please. It has not even been a week since I tried to kill you. I owe it to you now to keep you alive,” he laughs, fishing his cellphone out of the pocket of his dark jeans. He uses it to take a picture of a mark on the table, and suddenly the screen displays a restaurant menu.

Bucky sits up a little. “Is that how you order?”

“Yeah,” says T’Challa, scooting a little closer so that Bucky can see. “It’s just a QR code - they are not so new, really. They have them all over the world, now. A few years ago, it was only Wakanda and Japan who used them…” he explains, thumbing through the selection of food and drinks. “Do you know what you want?”

Bucky leans in to read over his shoulder. “To tell you the truth...I don’t know what most of this stuff is.”

T’Challa sighs happily, shoulders squaring with pride. “You know - we used to be a nation that did not like to travel. Instead, Wakandans focused on bringing the best of the outside world into our own country and enjoying it all,” he shakes his head, amused, “ _safely_ and comfortably right here. Technology, medicine, music, food...we really like foreign things. We just do not appreciate foreign interference,” he says.

“Can you order for me?”

T’Challa’s lips curl upward in a satisfied smirk. “You trust my culinary expertise. I like that,” he practically simpers. Bucky can almost feel T’Challa’s body getting warmer beside him, like strength and happiness just seep out of his pores when he’s pleased. “Have you ever had bubble tea? It’s really popular in Taiwan. I spent a summer at Chengchi University in Taipei - I couldn’t stop drinking them.”

“Can’t say I have,” Bucky says, leaning back so that the screen is out of view, indicating that he won’t argue with any decision T’Challa makes.

“You’re going to need something milky. You do like spicy food, right?” he challenges, arching his brow. “You are not a coward?”

“I guess we’ll see,” Bucky shrugs.

“We’re both getting maafe, then. It’s African, but in Wakanda we use more Scotch bonnet peppers which, by the way, grow hotter here than anywhere else in the world,” he says smugly. “My father made it better than me, but I make it better than any restaurant.”

“How hot, exactly?” Bucky laughs, suddenly a little nervous.

“The pepper? About...one hundred and sixty times hotter than a jalapeño?” T’Challa says dismissively, ordering two plates.

“You’re _still_ trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

“Maybe I have developed a bad habit.”

**Author's Note:**

> Really hope you guys are enjoying this so far. <3
> 
> Also, I spent HOURS pouring over all the resources on Xhosa the internet had to offer. PLEASE, correct me if I made mistakes.


End file.
